


Beatdown

by Aceghost (darkalbino)



Category: Homestuck
Genre: If You Squint - Freeform, M/M, Strained Relationship, one-sided stridercest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-05
Updated: 2014-08-05
Packaged: 2018-02-11 20:50:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 837
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2082726
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/darkalbino/pseuds/Aceghost
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's not like you enjoy it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Beatdown

The cement is black, grimy, hot. Sun is beating against your sweat-soaked nape at the same tune to the pain pulsing in your side and your cheek is scratched as raw as your hands and your knees are bruised and screaming but you don’t move. Fuck that. There is an internal riot – it hurts, don’t you feel the blood, this is not okay, you asshole – but everything is suppressed beneath stiff limbs and steady breathing. If any of it breaks through, you’ll be knifed way worse than bone-deep. Words cut somewhere that doesn’t fucking heal.  

You’re not moving.

“Get up.”

There’s that edge in his voice, gruff and low but not quite sharp enough yet to show he means business. You hear the blade of his katana sing as Bro slides it back into its sheath for the moment (hopefully). Your mouth opens and you try to choke something out around the cork of pain jammed in your throat. Doesn’t work. You lick your lips, try again, and this time it’s raspy and faint but hey, you got it out.

You’re not moving.

“What?” He snaps. Sighs. You are such a pain in the ass. “Christ, quit mumblin’ and get up, you’ve been through worse.”

Oh yeah.

 _Yeah_.

The not moving rule breaks as you reach up; gingerly run your fingertips over the swollen bumps of Frankenstein stitches that line your forehead. They’re coming loose. Bro was a shiner at kicking your ass but the guy made a piss poor nurse. You clench your fist. “I said I’m good. Right here.”

There’s a beat that shadows the throb in your ears as his footsteps pound towards you. None of his flashstepping bullshit. They’re hard and heavy and even and Jesus fuck that’s a million times more terrifying. ”Good is on your feet, not eating the pavement with your bony ass in the air. Get _up_.”

There it is. That’s the ‘don’t try me, kid’ tone.

Your nostrils flare with a long, exaggerated sigh before you extend an arm for your shitty sword. It clings and clatters across the ground as you push yourself up, but that’s all you do. Get on your feet and push your shades up because they’ve slipped too far down your nose for comfort. Your fingers are loose around the hilt of your blade, the tip still touching the ground.

You’re tired of this. There’s air conditioning inside, a shower, your music, and a cold six pack of apple juice and you can’t wait to go and glutton yourself on all of it to forget about this stupid strife because _you’re tired of this_.

Bro crosses his arms over his chest in an all too familiar show of muscular disappointment. You snap your own thin arm back down when you realize you started rubbing at it subconsciously. You’ve been noticing you noticing yourself doing that a lot lately. You make a mental note to chew out Lalonde.

“Is that how you’re gonna face the guy who just handed you a solid, painfully embarrassing beatdown?”

“I said I was good on the ground.”

His mouth twists at that sentence, like he can chew on it and spit out the bits he doesn’t like. “Lazy shit.” Even with the barrier of his shades and yours, Bro’s gaze slips like a splinter under your skin. Its intensity speaks volumes without needing a fucking word, so needling you physically shift in discomfort. And then, “But you’re doin’ better than last time.”

The comment comes out shrugged and off-handed but lightning might as well have just struck your heart with the way your chest tightens up and you fight not to snag your lower lip between your teeth. Hearing those words come out of his mouth – hearing anything that _remotely_ sounds like praise – makes your stomach flip turnways like it’s on a trip straight out of your ass. When you’re the family fuckup, receiving credit is almost overwhelming.

If that’s not enough, this fuck’s just come up behind you. He’s got both your wrists in one hand and he’s going on about stances and straightening your shoulders with the other. Something about real men who, even wounded, keep running until they can no longer stand. Bro kicks your legs apart, smacks your lower back so you’re not a slouched over piece of shit.

“Got it?” he grunts.

No, you don’t ‘got it’. You can’t get it because his breathing is too distracting, ruffling your hair with every exhale as his fingers squeeze around your pulse. You can’t get it because his heartbeat’s like thunder, like a drum between your shoulder blades. You don’t get a word because the air has gone solid around you and you can’t draw it in for your life and the wet heat of his breath has moved to your ear so he can ask again even though you know, you _know_ he hates repeating himself.

You lick your lips, and your voice sounds like a string that’s been pulled too tight, but, “Yeah.”

**Author's Note:**

> dysfunctional Striders are very important to me


End file.
